Tonight, the Foxes hunt the Hounds
by The Readers Muse
Summary: He knew the way the story was supposed to go. Alive or dead, she was supposed to be behind that door. He'd read the ending a thousand times. He knew it by heart, every subtle emotion, every sullied second of it.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is response fill for the USS Caryl's "What if" Challenge on tumblr regarding the following prompt: (Scenario #6_) "What if, in season three, when Daryl opened the door where he thought walker!Carol was hiding, she wasn't there, not even as a walker? Re-write their happy reunion or detail the discovery of Carol, perhaps even walker!Carol by Daryl?"_ - As requested by Octoberland.

**Warnings:** Contains spoilers for all three seasons of the Walking Dead, specifically season three, violence, strong language. Also contains a big divergence from canon circa season three.

**Tonight, the Foxes hunt the Hounds**

_**Chapter One**_

He knew the way the story was supposed to go. Alive or dead, she was supposed to be behind that door. He'd read the ending a thousand times. He knew it by heart, every subtle emotion, every sullied second of it. It was the classic conclusion, the pivotal moment where the protagonist makes that one, terrible discovery that, for good or ill, acts as the story's climax, the final action point before the story switches over to the epilogue.

And he knew what had to be done.

His chest was tight, vice-like and suffocating, as he slammed the point of Carol's knife down on the concrete. _Dulling the blade_. Anger rose up in the back of his throat like bile, _like a sickness_, burning all the way up as his hand tightened around the handle. Everything had happened so fast. He'd been too far away, too far away to do anything but run as the group had scattered.

_She should'a just stayed put. If she hadn't gone and played the hero, if someone else had been there when her and T-dog had gone to close that gate, she might still be here. She might-_

The accusations were weak, even to him. But he clung to them nonetheless. He couldn't stop. He needed an excuse, an excuse_ not_ to think about what this meant, about what would happen next. Not just in terms of what was behind that door, but what that absence would mean two hours from now, two _days_, two _months_.

He'd always figured he'd be the one to leave_ her_ hangin'. Not the other way around.

Karma could be a loose-legged bitch that way.

He bit down on the inside of his cheek until the blood pooling across his tongue threatened to overspill, coloring the back of his teeth as he slammed the knife against the wall behind him. Once, twice, then again, before he yanked himself to his feet.

_Stop pussy-footin' around. You know what you have to do. Get it done. _

_She deserved better._

He dragged the walker blocking the door away, halting the continuous _creak-creak_ from the door in mid-swing, almost as if whatever was on the other side was holding its breath. But he didn't wait to find out, _he couldn't_. Instead he lurched forward, swinging the door open with a slam as he lunged inside, knife raised.

The darkness was unfriendly.

He looked up, catching a sliver of blue sky through the tiny, barred window set into the opposite wall. He blinked.

There was nothing here.

_Well, shit._

It was a twist, no, a _plot twist_, a sudden switch, unexpected and uncertain. The type of turnabout that comes part and parcel with a shit ton of exclamation points and leaves you with more questions than answers. It made him think of premature ejaculation, doing a U-turn at a red light, or running out of coffee on a Monday morning. Because all else considered, he had to admit, that opening the door and finding nothin' just _wasn't_ what he'd been expecting.

He paused in the threshold, the hand holding the knife flagged, _impotent_, as he squinted into the dark. There were a set of bunks bolted into the wall on the far side, pictures of loved ones and Maxim models taped carefully underneath. Hell, there was even a perfect rack of d-cups taped precariously right underneath a picture of Grandma.

He raised a brow, fighting disbelief, disappointment and relief all at the same time as he looked down at the floor. There was a dark stain standing out against the concrete, almost as though someone had bled out propped up against the wall, waiting for a rescue that would never come.

That was where she was _supposed _to be. Something in him just _knew_ it. _Felt it_. Only she wasn't. And that was a good thing, _maybe_.

It was something authors often referred to as a discovery plot twist, an _anagorisis_, when the protagonist has a sudden revelation of another character's state of being. He remembered his eighth grade English teacher, Miss Weathers, nattering on about it one day in class, after suffering through an entire unit of Romeo and Juliet. However, as Miss Weathers had also pointed out, such an occurrence could also just as easily be seen as an example of the _peripeteia_ trope, an event detailing a sudden reversal of the protagonist's fortunes.

But still, it begged the question, _where the hell was she?_

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**A/N #2:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – There will be one more chapter to this story, I was aiming for a one-shot but reached a natural pause, so this will be a two-shot. The next chapter should be up in a day or so.

**A/N #3:** Title inspired by Fall Out Boy's new song "Young Volcanoes."


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead, wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is response fill for the USS Caryl's "What if" Challenge on tumblr regarding the following prompt: (Scenario #6) "What if, in season three, when Daryl opened the door where he thought walker!Carol was hiding, she wasn't there, not even as a walker? Re-write their happy reunion or detail the discovery of Carol, perhaps even walker!Carol by Daryl?" - As requested by Octoberland.

**Warnings:** Contains spoilers for all three seasons of the Walking Dead, specifically season three, violence, strong language. Also contains a big divergence from canon circa season three.

**Tonight, the Foxes hunt the Hounds**

_**Chapter Two**_

It was dark by the time he made it back to the cell block, and in a lot of ways, he just wasn't up to it. He didn't want to come back empty handed; he didn't _want_ to have to see the looks on their faces - pity and grief intermingling as reality set in. He didn't want to face it, thank you very_ fuckin' _much. He didn't want to confirm what everyone already knew, that they'd lost her - lost _Carol._

_They'd already lost so much, a third of their group in a single day, people who'd been with them since the beginning. Family. _

And worst of all, _he_ knew _they_ knew. They knew about him and Carol. It wasn't like it had been much of anything to begin with, certainly nothin' official. Honestly, he'd been too chicken shit to take it any further than her playful jibes and honest presence. He liked to think he'd been working his way up to it though.

_Shoulda', woulda', coulda'. _

This kinda shit was the reason why he didn't believe in happy endings.

He closed the door to the cell block harder than he'd intended. Noting without much ceremony that Rick, Carl, Beth and the baby were missing, not unusual considering the circumstances, but suspect at the same time. He probably should go collect 'em, make sure Rick's head was screwed on right, but he didn't. He couldn't bring himself to care.

_Not now._

Facing the others was about as bad as he'd been expecting, _worse._ They were all standing there, wide-eyed and staring. Maggie even had the gall to smile. But before he could even so much open his mouth, Glenn was suddenly just_ there_, glued to his elbow and tugging at him, saying shit, _words,_ but he wasn't listening.

He shook him off.

There was a roaring in his ears that hadn't been there a few seconds ago, loud and all-encompassing as his muscles tightened. Sweat trickled down from his temple, his skin fever-hot and clammy as his free hand curled into a tight fist. He felt like he was five seconds away from just fucking _snapping_. He wanted to just break down and throw shit, he wanted to feel bones splintering under his skin, he wanted-

"Daryl, did you hear what I said? It's okay; she- …Did you- _Daryl? _You with me, man?"

A familiar, closely cropped head rose into view from behind the protective swell of Hershel's elbow. She was half hidden in the relative shadows of the prison bunk, her hair spiked up all pixie-like around her head, slicked with blood and sweat. In a word, she looked like hell; her fair, freckled skin was bruised to shit. She was filthy and exhausted, but alive. _Alive_.

And really, the world might as well have fuckin' stopped spinning as far as he was concerned.

She looked up, catching his gaze as he stopped cold, a tremulous smile lifting the corners of her lips as she took him in, relief and perhaps something else flirting with her expression as the others parted between them like the Red Sea.

And for a long moment, all he could really think about was the device that literary critics called the _Deus Ex Machina _– interference from the gods. Because like that awesome magical sword that appears out of nowhere in the middle of an epic fight where there is a monster breathin' down your neck and you've put all your last chip down, betting your life on that spindly piece of iron, for the first time since she'd gone missing, he_ finally_ felt like he could breathe again.

His crossbow slipped out of his grip. The clatter damningly loud in the exaggerated quiet as the others turned to look, mirror stares of surprise and understanding as the impenetrable mask he'd been holding onto ever since the walkers had forced them to scatter visibly crumpled. He just stood there, staring and stupid as she slowly sat up, uncurling her thin little limbs from the mattress. Weak but so _god damned_ strong that he had no idea what to do with himself when she started making her way towards him.

He choked on his next breath, forgetting how to swallow as Glenn's words finally registered. She'd heard the baby and followed the noise. She'd made her way out of the tombs and into the prison yard where Oscar and Axel had eventually found her, collapsed beside some dinky little side gate just a few yards from the entrance to the cell block.

Her tattered shirt billowed around her willowy frame, layered and perfect as she leaned heavily against a pillar, brushing away Hershel's worried hands as he limped along a few feet behind her. _She had eyes only for him. _

His chest tightened, because there it was, _the denouement_, the final resolution of the plot. The point where all the loose ends were neatly tied up, the moment were the climax hits its peak and has the audience all but squirming in their seats. It was supposed to be the moment where the main lead comes swooping in for that signature, sunset kiss. But he was barely even fucking _standing_.

A wounded sound issued from deep in his throat, thrumming out into the quiet without his consent. It was reminiscent of a dog that had just been stepped on as across the rapidly shortening distance, something in her expression shifted. Taking a detour away from what _could_ have been and angling towards what he realized they'd been building up to this whole god damned time.

Solace? Completion? Love? He didn't know how to define it or how it would look in a sentence if it were ever written down. He only knew how it felt. How _he_ felt, and _Christ_ - he felt-

Years later, if they lived that long, they might look back on this moment and laugh, ribbing each other playfully as they joked about who'd reached for whom first. But at the end of the day, he knew the truth of it.

It wasn't until she'd made it half way that something clicked. The corners of his eyes stung with the acrid tang of unshed tears. He almost laughed. It seemed ridiculous considering the circumstances. Ridiculous that he could feel like _this_, happy, after everything that had happened.

But apparently he'd sold his soul to the devil somewhere along the line because here they were, closing the gap between friendship and something, well, _else_. Either way, he didn't give a shit. _She was worth it._

She was maybe a meter away, when she started talking. Her expression was like sunshine reflecting off water as she came to a halt, extending her hand towards him, slowly, letting _him_ make the final call as his heart nearly pounded right out of his god damned chest.

"Daryl, I-"

But something in his brain must have been working after all, because he drew her in before she could even finish her sentence. Catching her in mid-stumble as the world narrowed down and she was warm and trembling in his arms. Forgetting everything else save for the moment as he dug his face into the curve of her neck and breathed her in.

His grip was stiff and cautious right up until the moment where it wasn't and suddenly he was holding her tight. _Too tight. _Reeling her in bit by bit until she was wrapping her her arms around his neck and suddenly he was supporting the both of them.

His fingers dug into the curve of her spine in a way he _knew _had to hurt, forgetting himself as her shoulder blades trembled, twitching and rolling underneath his palms like a bird readying to take flight. But he only held on that much tighter. And she _let_ him, soaking his shirt as she laughed and cried all at the same time, murmuring his name in that soft but undeniably hopefully little tone that had heat flushing across his cheeks, bubbling and growing deep in his chest until he found himself joining in. Lifting the eves of the prison with their joy as the others condensed around them, hemming them in from all sides with happy sounds and tangled limbs until even _he_ was fuckin'_ laughing_.

And honestly, all else considered, he might have to rethink that whole thing about happy endings.

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**A/N #2:** Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! - This story is now complete.


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